


soulless

by Alteredgalaxy



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Demon!Shane, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, and you can quote me on that, literally a bfu au where nothings changed except shanes a demon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 08:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alteredgalaxy/pseuds/Alteredgalaxy
Summary: The expression on Father Thomas' face was completely blank, say for the dangerous light behind those eyes burning into Shane. “Yes.” A pause. “Demons. Creatures that can hide in plain sight.”Shane leans forward, stone faced as his eyes turn black with the next blink."Looks like you outta be careful then, huh?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Too many demon!shane au's where Shane's a malicious demon and out to get Ryan. Let him me goofy & ridiculous with no ulterior motive.
> 
> I've been planning this one for months - hopefully you'll all enjoy it as much as I do.

 

* * *

 04/16/20xx - 9:44 PM

_(April 16 th, 20xx)_

* * *

 

Eyes closed, Shane leans his head against the cool, concrete wall and allows himself to zone out while the spirit box crackles away. He doesn't have to use his true sight to know there’s something in the room with them; it’s a feeling, an  _energy_  that sends a shiver up his spine and makes the hair on his arms stand on end.

 

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tapping against his outstretched thigh as Ryan explains the logistics of the box to any listening spirits. He shifts his position, wincing when a symphony of cracks echo through his lower back but moves to cross his legs to mirror Ryan’s posture. There’s still something waiting to be seen.

 

Still, he opens his eyes and suddenly the world goes grey scale. He knows the camera is a wide enough shot to pick them both up, but he also knows its positioned back far enough that shadows draping over his face serve as good enough cover for the lack of iris’. A good excuse. It’s one he’s used before, and it works.

 

As soon as they get on location, Shane makes it a habit to scan the darkness with his true sight and look for anything that might set off a few alarm bells. Most places he got lucky. Most places had nothing dangerous. Nothing to worry about. Only a few lingering, lost spirits, trying their damnedest to communicate

 

But his _eyes_.. the murky, black pits where the warm, brown, iris’ should have been were always pointed out. They were always noticeable, but he was careful to make sure it happened when they were shrouded in darkness, or when the camera was in night vision, leaving Boogaras and Shaniacs alike nothing to blame it on but a trick of the light.

 

And in the doorway, he sees her. The faint, pale form of a featureless woman. Long, straight hair falls over and conceals her face, arms hang at her sides and the flowing nightgown shes wearing is stained with blood. He knows she’s been standing there for a while but made no attempt to get closer or speak.

 

“Can you tell us your name?” Ryan asks against the static, “Are you one of the murdered family members?”

 

The spirit box cracks and sputters out half-concocted words, but the woman says nothing..  _does_  nothing. Shane can’t see her eyes, but he knows she’s looking directly at him. There’s a tense aura to her but nothing more; she’s curious, cautious, and so very,  _very_  afraid of his mere presence. They both seem to be waiting.

 

Question is, for what?

 

“My name’s Ryan,” He says helpfully, then gestures to Shane. “This is Shane. We’re here to talk.”

 

She continues to stare.

 

“If you’ve got something to say,” Shane drawls, and he knows the camera will show him clearly staring directly at something out of frame. His head is turned ever so slightly, knowing the boogaras will eat it up like they always do. “now’s the time. We ain’t here forever.”

 

It’s a challenge. A  _threat._

 

“Please.” Ryan adds, “We’re just here to find out what happened.”

 

The box continues to spit out incoherent, half-formed voices, which Shane knows for a fact aren’t from ghosts. There’s nothing else in the entire house, but it doesn't stop Ryan from reacting like he hears full sentences. He’s jumpy, nervous, and his hand is clenched around the box so hard his knuckles turn white.

 

“Who killed you?” He questions, “Do you remember?”

 

Shane sighs.

 

“Or.. did you do this? Did you kill them?”

 

At that, the faceless woman slowly turns her head toward Ryan as if just noticing he was there or registering his words. Shane tenses at the sudden attention shift, but he doesn't sense a hostile aura, and there’s no sign this docile spirit will become agitated, so he allows himself to relax somewhat. He could obliterate her in a second.

 

She doesn't move from her spot, but it’s clear her form is trembling ever so slightly. There’s no gesture, but he knows she’s trying to reach out to Ryan, trying desperately to get his attention and doesn't realize she’s invisible to the human eye. She flickers once, twice, three times, then stops. Then repeats the action twice more.

 

“Their intestines were ripped from their body,” Shane says as he eyes the bloodstain on her gown. The fabric is also ripped open, revealing even more dark stains. “What’d you do with them, huh? You eat ‘em? Craving some good ‘ole sausage links?”

 

Ryan exhales shakily, “Jesus Christ, dude..”

 

The woman’s right hand hovers over her stomach, entire form still flickering on repeat. It’s obvious that no, she wasn’t the murderer and in fact a victim, but Shane still didn’t feel too bad about taunting her. She was a ghost, a _stranger_ who died centuries ago and its his whole brand to make fun of the dead.

 

“What? Deep fry those bad boys, add a little ketchup with like, some garlic bread on the side--”

 

“You’re a _cannibal?_ Is that what you’re admitting to, Shane? Cannibalism?” He asks, but stifles a ridiculous, nervous, giggle, “You're a cannibal? You’d eat a human being?”

 

Shane smiles, "I only exclusively eat legs, Ryan - why do you think I'm so tall?"

 

Ryan shakes his head with the expected amount of exasperation, but its clear some of his previous fear dissolved with the light-hearted banter. Mission accomplished, he supposes. He dislikes it when Ryan gets scared to the point of slurred speech and teary eyes. Best to stop it before it even happens. Best to keep a balance.

 

Though, that fear quickly returns when Ryan announces he’s going to turn off the box. At the words, the woman snaps her head back to stare at Shane but this time something different happens.

 

 ** **'D̸̄͐͛ͣ̾́ͪͮ̕e̒ͩͭͭͣͨ̿̋̕m̴̅ͯ̄̒͑̎ͩ̋̑͞͞o͑͋͂̆́̐͑͌n̨̋ͪͤ͆̇͛̉͗̂͡'****  comes out of the box, clear as day.

 

A panicked noise escapes Ryan as he jumps at the sound. His wide eyes turn to Shane - who quickly blinks the true vision away - for conformation that he heard the same thing. Oh, boy. This will be good. He casually turns his head and meets his friends’ stare, poker face already in full effect and working wonders.

 

“What?” He asks a little too innocently, “I didn’t hear anything.”

  

“Are you serious?” Ryan exclaims, “It said--”

  

 ** **D̸̄͐͛ͣ̾́ͪͮ̕e̒ͩͭͭͣͨ̿̋̕m̴̅ͯ̄̒͑̎ͩ̋̑͞͞o͑͋͂̆́̐͑͌n̨̋ͪͤ͆̇͛̉͗̂͡****  comes out a second time, then more distorted:  ** **R̴͋͂̈́ͭ̐̕͘Ǔ̡̍͐͢͢Ņ̉ͨ̑ͧ̋͜****

 

Shane pays another glance to the woman in the doorway, unable to see her now without the vision, but he figures she’s desperate now, trying to warn Ryan like most spirits brave enough to come this close do. In a way, it’s odd how ghosts seem to look out for their living counter parts but most times it’s just an annoyance.

  

“Where?” He asks, hands balled into fists. “Is there one in this house?”

 

****D̉̎͠Ȩ̸ͯͮͮ̚M̄͘O̅ͫ͆͛͑͘Nͣ̏.̀͊ͧ͒ͬ ̉͜͠H̡̛̃̓ͤͬ͐̃̿̋Ȩ̀̋̌̈ͩ̈ͣ͐͝Ř̄E̶͑̍̑̎͂͐.ͩ̄͂̓ͫ̑͝ ̷̵̎͡R̊̓̀͑́ͭ̉ͨ͟Uͩͥ̊̎͐̀̈͡҉͞N̸̢ͯ̐̆̐̃ͨ.̍ͧ̓ͤͤ̃** **

  

Shane has nothing against lost spirits, but some of them get too close to revealing the truth. Some of them have a bit more coherent understanding of their surroundings than others, which Shane finds unfortunate. For them, at least. He doesn't want to destroy them, but the talkative ones often leave him no choice.

 

What he does instead, is growl. It’s a low, but warning, rumble that escapes the back of his throat, yet sounds like it comes from all around the room. It’s a warning shot of sorts, a threat that things will get nasty if the recipient doesn't back off. The woman looks back to him, takes a step back, then shudders out of view.

 

Of course, Ryan makes no indication he heard a noise. It’s a sound - or rather a frequency that cant be heard by human ears, but can cause audio distortion, and Shane isn’t exactly sure how it works. He never cared enough to try and figure it out, but as long as no one hears it, that’s fine with him. It’s a useful trick to have up his sleeve.

 

And that was that.

 

Meanwhile, the _‘Ryan’s Fear Meter’_ in his head was going haywire. Ryan tries one last ditch effort to reach out to the woman, but Shane reaches over to take the box from his shaking hands. He switches it off, mumbling something about how it sounds akin to stepping on a distracted cats tail, and senses that fear meter gradually lower.

 

Ryan wastes no time getting to his feet and promptly beginning to rant about how that’s their most compelling evidence yet. From where he still sits on the floor, Shane rolls his eyes and dreads the session they’re going to have in the studio booth to decipher the audio tomorrow. It’s a good thing he’s perfected his poker face.

 

And as the conversation ends, the two get ready to wrap up the investigation, but he barely pays attention to the brief discussion Ryan has with TJ about areas to shoot for the voice overs. Shane simply walks out of the room, adjusting the harness on his chest with the stupid go-pro for the upcoming solo-session.

  

“Ready, big guy?” Ryan asks with more confidence than whats displayed on his face.

  

“Mhm.” He responds as they head to the basement slash wine cellar, apparently where all the victims were murdered. “You going first, or am I?”

  

Ryan scoffs, “Who do you think?”

  

Shane smiles.

 

When he was alone during those solo-sessions - when he was back in the comfort of the heavy darkness - he couldn’t use his vision since there was a camera trained directly on his face. However.. he knew they were there; could _sense_ their lingering presences, their energy and blank stares, too afraid of him to respond to his taunts.

 

It was Ryan they talked to, it was him they whispered to but he was easily terrified, so their pleading fell of deaf ears. He supposed that was for the best. They tried to warn him, to direct him down a safer path, but their efforts to keep him safe were futile and only drove him away; made him panic and flee the room.

  

Spirits would always follow him back like his own shadow, and would only flee once again when he entered Shane’s proximity. They avoided him like the plague, like they’d disintegrate if they came any closer. Still, some tried to reach out to Ryan when the spirit box came into play because some were braver than others.

 

 _Run._  It would often cackle out, and to the untrained ear would just sound like gibberish.  _Run._

  

But Ryan was .. paranoid, and a little too attentive for his own good.

 

_Dangerous._

 

‘What is?’ Ryan would ask, and again: ‘Who is?’

 

_Get out._

 

‘What are you so afraid of?’

 

_Him._

 

‘Him? Him who?’

 

He never gets an answer.

 

Shane makes sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Father Thomas was collectively cancelled by the fandom, idc if I got him in character or not but he's a good plot device lol. thanks bitcc

 

* * *

05/23/20xx - 2:12 PM

_(May 23 rd, 20xx)_

* * *

 

The pair enters the main room; pristine white walls with stained glass windows lining the walls. They walk down the dark red carpet between the near-empty pews with only a couple people praying or sitting in silence. He wonders if the high-arched ceiling was designed to make a person feel tiny and insignificant.

  

Near the front of the room, there is a stage with a speakers podium but his eyes are drawn to the Jesus statue towering behind it -- he always found that unpleasant. The statue’s eyes were open only a sliver, but he feels like its staring right at him as the two make their way down the isle and towards the figure.

 

The man of the hour, a priest known as Father Thomas, that Ryan was so excited to meet. He was supposed to talk to them for the show, but Shane knows that given the context, they were going to be scolded more than anything. He simply sighs as Ryan rubs his hands together nervously but peers back at Shane.

  

Father Thomas glances over his shoulder briefly, then turns back to the woman he seemed to be in deep discussion with. The conversation lasts another minute or so, but she loudly thanks him and walks in their direction. She clutches her cross necklace and avoids eye contact, but Shane stares anyway as Ryan approaches the man.

  

“Father Thomas,” He smiles warmly and holds an outstretched hand, “I’m Ryan, this is Shane. We talked on the phone yesterday.”

  

A gentle smile finds its way to Father Thomas’ face, “Ah, yes, of course. Welcome, both of you.”

  

Ryan pulls back from the handshake and gestures to Shane, but as soon as Father Thomas’ eyes find his, all the warmth drains from them. He extends a hand, which Shane takes after a beat of hesitation, and firmly shakes it. The smile doesn't falter, and neither does the eye contact. If looks could kill, Shane figures he’d be dead.

  

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Ryan cuts in but didn’t seem to notice the sudden tension. “It means a lot.”

  

Father Thomas finally lets go of Shane’s hand and lets his stare linger for a few more moments before saying: “Of course.”

  

He gestures for the two to sit in the pews close to the front of the room, and as they walk, Shane can _feel_ how hard he’s being stared at but has no choice but to ignore it for now. They take their seats and Father Thomas silently slides in one row behind them, but patiently waits for them all to get situated and comfortable.

 

He starts it off. “I understand you boys said you’re involved in some.. ghost hunting show? Is that right?”

  

Ryan nods, “Yes, but we’ve only done a few episodes, so we wanted to contact an expert for opinions and advice.”

  

“I wouldn’t say I’m a ghost expert, per-say.. My expertise lies mostly with..”

  

“Demons?” Shane supplies helpfully.

  

Father Thomas is staring at him again, “Yes.” A pause, “Demons. Creatures that can hide in plain sight.”

  

“We were hoping you could tell us what you know about the supernatural before we get too deep into it.” Ryan goes on, oblivious to the staring contest the other two are having. “Dangers, myths, real cases, and whatnot.”

  

“Of course,” He says again, “But I have to ask - do you believe in all of it?”

  

“Absolutely.” There’s no hesitation, “But my idiot counterpart over here thinks its all bull.”

  

Father Thomas, and those judgmental eyes of his, turn back to Shane with an expression that's unreadable.

 

“I see.”

 

As soon as the cameraman arrives, the interview begins. Ryan asks all the questions, checking everything off that mental list of his and adding something when Father Thomas says something intriguing. For the most part, he sticks to the script of highlighted, crucial questions the two went over before arriving.

  

Shane barely speaks; he just processes. He intently listens to the careful answers Father Thomas gives them, putting more thought into his words than he gives regular people, because there’s no doubt he knows he’s in the presence of a demon. That’s something Shane knows he’ll have to deal with while time ticks by.

  

Most of what the priest says is true -- he’s no fake, and that’s what sets Shane on edge. This man knows how to perform legitimate exorcisms, he can create legitimate holy water, he knows the difference between fiction and reality. He knows Shane is a demon. It’s only a matter of what he’s going to do with that information. 

 

But he’s helpful. Everything he says has Ryan nodding along with intense fascination, his bubbling questions answered before he even has a chance to open his mouth. He looks like a kid in a candy store, and the expressions he makes could tell an entire story to anyone watching from afar. He’s in his element.

 

“So demons aren’t human? They never were?” Ryan asks, leaning forward in his seat.

 

“No.” Is the simple response, and Shane doesn't have to look up to know Father Thomas' next words are directed towards him. “They’re spawned directly from Hell, creatures of pure darkness.”

 

Ryan thinks about that for a moment, “I’ve heard stories that they can take the form of a human without possession. Is that possible?”

 

_Way to hit the nail on the head,_  Shane thinks

 

“Not in my experience, no.” Father Thomas replies, “Demons can only exist through possession. They cannot survive without a host.”

 

The conversations lasts for another fifteen minutes or so, but when it finally ends, Shane is somewhat relieved. He’s been going over possible scenarios, what he’d have to do to keep the priest quiet, but something doesn't feel right. If Father Thomas were going to out him as a demon, wouldn’t he have done it by now?

 

He frowns as the three of them get up from the pews, and walk back over to the podium. Ryan and the priest have a quick discussion that ends with his water bottle being blessed -- holy water for their future journeys. Ryan looks more confident than he did walking in, so the pair finally say their goodbyes and turn to leave.

  

And that should have been the end of it.

  

“Mr. Madej,” Father Thomas speaks up, just loud enough for him to hear since Ryan was a few paces ahead. When Shane glances over his shoulder, their eyes meet. “A word?”

  

Shane stares back, completely unphased, but decides not to hesitate and turns back around.

 

From over his shoulder he hears Ryan’s: “Shane?”

 

“Just a sec.”

 

Shane follows Father Thomas back over to the pews they were just sitting at, but as soon as they get out of ear-shot, he stops. The man taps on the back of the pew distractedly, before slowly turning to face Shane. The calm, serious expression was a good poker face, but he knows they both know what this conversation is really about.

  

Finally, Father Thomas breaks the silence with a simple question. “Does he know?”

  

“Oh, we’re just skipping the foreplay? No use in playing dumb, huh?”

  

“No,” He agrees, but looks somewhat relieved. “I sensed something evil, something _dark_ as soon as you boys entered. So-” He clasped his fingers together, “-does he know?”

  

Shane wasn’t surprised by the complete lack of fear being displayed, “No. And I intend to keep it that way.”

  

Father Thomas presses his lips into a thin line with deep concentration. It makes Shane wonder if he’s not the first demon the man has ever spoken to, and so casually at that. He’s the first to break the unspoken staring contest, but his eyes stare at something over Shane’s shoulder. Presumably at Ryan.

  

“It would be highly unethical of me to not tell him what you are. I should. It hurts me that I’m even letting you walk out of here.”

 

Shane considers that for a moment, “So why are you?”

 

“A good question. Curiosity, I suppose.”

 

“Curiosity.” He repeats.

 

“You’re strange, Mr. Madej. In all my years, I’ve never known a demon to pretend to befriend a human.”

  

“I’m not pretending.”

 

“Demons are incapable of human emotions and feelings. You cannot feel guilt, or happiness. You cannot experience the joy of friendship, or love.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve been doing a good job of experiencing those things so far.” Shane replies, “The utter devastation I felt when I realized I already ate my leftover Chinese food, was pretty real."

 

Father Thomas doesn't smile, “Your experiences are only pale imitations of the real thing, Mr. Madej, nothing more.”

 

Unable to hold his stare any longer, Shane’s eyes find two men across the room, heads lowered in prayer. He wonders if they know all their prayers will fall of deaf ears. He wonders if they know God isn't listening, or ever was.

 

“But I must ask,” He speaks again, and it breaks Shane out of his trance. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

 

“Are you asking if I have some sort of ulterior motive?”

 

“Suppose I am.”

 

Shane exhales. “I don’t. He’s my friend. I’m simply living my life as a human.”

 

There’s a faraway look in Father Thomas’ eyes that Shane can’t quite decipher as either skepticism or belief.

 

“If you consider him a friend, why haven’t you told him?”

 

“..I will eventually. I’m sure you can imagine its a delicate subject.”

 

The man seems to consider that. “You’re worried you’ll scare him away. You’re worried he’ll see you for what you are, and turn his back on you.”

 

Shane’s jaw clenches, “I’m not. I trust him.”

 

“Then _why_ haven’t you told him?” He repeats

 

He opens his mouth to respond, but can't find the words.

 

“You’re dangerous. He deserves to know.”

 

“I’m _not._ I won’t hurt him.” Shane sounds more defensive than he meant to, “He’s my best friend. I would _never_  hurt him.”

 

Father Thomas nods to himself but taps his fingers against the back of the pew. It took a moment, but he looks back up at Shane, pushes his glasses up and gave a humorless smile.

 

“I think you believe that.” he replies, voice soft with fake empathy. “I truly, honestly, think you believe that. But-” he looks away again, “Demons all have the same chaotic, destructive, nature, Mr. Madej. You’ll slip up, and you’ll harm him. Then you’ll realize you’re no better than the rest of them.”

 

Shane purses his lips as the words soak in; contemplating them until his mind pushes them to the side and argues they were wrong. They were _wrong._ He’s been proving people like Father Thomas wrong for a long time: he wasn’t evil, he wasn’t some soul-sucking creature from the fiery depths. He _wasn’t_  like them.

 

Still, he can’t find the right words to say, and as he turns to walk back over to where Ryan is waiting, he hears; “Shane.”

 

He looks over his shoulder; Father Thomas was facing him now with his hands clasped together.

 

“Tell him the truth,” he says, “or the next time you boys visit, I will.”

 

* * *

 

Shane pretends not to notice how Ryan quickly turns around, as if he’d get in trouble for watching so intently. He simply turns his back and looks over his shoulder at Shane as he approaches, but curiosity is written all over his face along with a little suspicion. He’s bad at being nonchalant, is all Shane can think.

 

“What was that about?” Ryan questions as they head back to the entrance.

 

Shane simply rolls his eyes, “Oh, y’know, he gave me The Talk. Told me about the birds and the bees.”

 

“Uh-huh. It seemed pretty intense.”

 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Don’t talk to ghosts, don’t taunt the demons, wear protection, be resp--”

 

Ryan let out a burst of wheezy laughter, “Hold on, what? What was that last part”

 

“Don’t talk to ghosts?” He asked a little too innocently.

 

They both shared a laugh, and the anxiety from the situation melted away. It was nice how calm and in control he felt around Ryan.

 

 “Oh, right, well we both know you’re not gonna listen to a word he said.”

 

“You know me so well.” He replies with that trademarked smile, “And besides, the show wouldn’t be that exciting if we both screamed in terror every time the wind moved something, or a rat scratched on the wall.”

 

He held open the door and over dramatically gestured for Ryan to walk through first.

 

“You’re gonna get possessed one of these days, and I’m gonna laugh.” Ryan says, “If you had a demon in that huge head of yours, you might actually be tolerable for once.”

 

Shane smiles softly as he lets the door close behind them


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two ghoulbois, one asylum & a malevolent spirit....... what could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for light gore, closer to the end.

07/07/20xx - 6:55 PM

_(July 7 th, 20xx)_

 

* * *

 

“This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved we take a look into the Terrifying Preston-Hill Psychiatric Hospital as part of our investigation into the ongoing question: are ghosts real?”

  

Shane keeps his poker face as he shakes his head.

  

“Originally built as a place of healing, the Preston-Hill Psychiatric Hospital welcomed its first patients in 1864.” Ryan begins in his patented narrative voice, “Built by brilliant architect Richard Andrews, it was constructed from 1858–1881 and is reported to cost millions of dollars which was unheard of for the time.”

 

The two sat on the steps to the massive building, but Shane stares idly at his hands while Ryan gives the rundown to the camera. He remembered hearing all this before when Ryan had first gone into researching this place, insisting that this time they’d get real proof. Tons of murder. Tons of death. Tons of ghost sightings.

 

“Originally designed to hold 250 people, it became overcrowded in the 1950s with 2,400 patients.” Ryan goes on, vaguely gesturing to the building behind them. “It was forcibly closed as recently as 1994 due to changes in patient treatment, many of whom endured forced lobotomies and electroshock therapy.”

  

_Yikes._ He wants to say, but knows better than to interrupt. Ryan insisted on doing this in one take.

  

“In 1881, disaster struck.” Ryan pauses for dramatic effect, and Shane’s sure there will be some sort of sound effect edited in. “Due to an increase in mental health diagnoses and the stigma surrounding the disease, the Asylum found its tranquil facilities overrun, housing almost 500 more patients than they ever imagined.

  

“Unable to keep up with the unforeseen number of patients that continued to grow every day, the conditions began to decline rapidly. Patients began being crammed together, sometimes four or five of them in a room intended for one. Patients began to starve, which only contributed to their declining mental health.”

  

_And suffering means ghosts!_ Shane silently added, even though he knew his quip would have gotten a chuckle or two.

  

“By 1938, the Asylum was six times over capacity. The patients inside were running wild, unable to be controlled by the orderlies inside. A report issued described the population as being comprised of, quote: ‘epileptics, alcoholics, drug addicts and non-educable mental defectives.’ end quote.”

  

He went on about the terrible conditions, dead bodies being stuffed in the vents, patients being locked in cages like animals to make room in bedrooms for less worrysome individuals. He talked about the nearly seven hundred acre graveyard which had to be expanded for the rapidly dying patients

  

Then, of course, he talks about ghost sightings. He’s been talking about that since they arrived. Shane doesn't have to go inside to know the truth; he could sense the energy the second they climbed out of the car. One quick sweep across the property showed half a dozen lost souls wandering aimlessly on the lawn.

  

None of the them paid the two any mind, but Shane’s eyes flick to a window in the second story where someone stares back at him. He quickly cuts the connection with a sigh and knows they’re in for an eventful night. Asylums were always hot-spots because of the large quantities of deaths that occurred.

 

So, as Ryan wraps up the intro and says a few words to TJ, he seems eager to get inside, which doesn't happen very often. But, when Ryan gets interested in the history of a location, it’s almost like he’s immune to the unsettling atmosphere. For the first few minutes until he hears a strange noise, that is.

 

The layout is pretty simple. The wide, high arched ceiling lobby they enter only has one set of dark red, double doors to the right of the receptionist desk. Through those, was an even wider hallway that lead to the three main things Ryan was interested in: the infirmary, the ‘death hall’ and the head doctors office.

 

Despite all three apparently being a goldmine for ghostly activity, Ryan had seemed _excited_  to explore those sections. He’d told Shane before they arrived that this would be the place they’d finally get, quote on quote ‘real evidence’. He’d ranted for twenty minutes about how he was going to prove Shane wrong.

 

Shane had just laughed. If only he knew.

* * *

 

“Well.. this is where the group of patients killed Dr. Harper.” Ryan gestures around the dark, empty room they just entered. It was an office with a high arching ceiling and devoid of furniture say for a desk, an office chair, two chairs and some bookshelves. “His angry spirit is supposed to still linger here.”

 

The room was completely vacant except for them.

 

“His own office, huh?” Shane muses, “Y’think he was writing in his diary when the angry mob came? Like, _‘dear diary,_ today was a good day. I forcefully circumcised two patients and they didn’t die! Yay! Tomorrow I’ll- _ohmygod!”_

 

Ryan snorts back a laugh, “Yeah, it’s reported that he did keep a murder journal-”

 

“A murder journal!” Shane exclaims and makes a beeline towards the large desk, “Oh, I gotta see this.”

 

“I wouldn’t count on finding it. Allegedly, the patients burned it.”

 

Shane skims his fingers over top the smooth, dusty surface of the desk. He suspects everything of value was removed when this place was raided and shut down, but that doesn't stop him from crouching behind the desk and pulling open all the drawers. A plume of dust comes out of each one as he searches for anything.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ryan asks, coming closer.

 

“Looking for the murder journal” He responds, sifting though nothing but trash. There was an empty can of spray paint to accompany the crude drawings on the walls. “What if this guy was a pervert? What if he got off on the torture?”

 

Ryan shudders, “I mean, that was one of the theories.”

 

Shane stops and peers up at him. “Is that what they think? That the guy ran a multi-million dollar facility just to get his rocks off? Couldn’t he have just joined a cult? Wouldn’t that have been more cost efficient?”

 

“He was a sociopath, Shane.”

 

“Well, yeah! But aren’t they supposed to be smart? What if he was just a dude, chasing that nut?”

 

“Jesus. It’s not like you can ask him, so just-”

 

“Hey. Dr. Harper!” Shane cups both hands around his mouth, and his voice echos around the room. It’s so loud, and so sudden that Ryan nearly jumps out of his skin. “Why were you such a fuckin’ freak, man?”

 

“Dude-” Ryan looks over his shoulder with wide eyes, “-shut up! What if he heard that?”

 

“He didn’t, ‘cause he’s dead. Ghosts aren’t real, Ryan.”

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters a string of curses in Shane’s direction, but Shane just laughs and turns his attention back to the desk. He continues to rummage through it, even though he knows anything interesting or of value was long gone. Still, that doesn't stop him from being nosy.

 

“Oh, check this out.” Shane says, and pulls out a monocle from the bottom drawer, “Finders keepers, baby!”

 

“Don’t put that on.”

 

“I’m putting it on, Ryan.”

 

The look Ryan gives him transcends words. “If you get pink-eye from that fucking thing-”

 

Shane brings the hundred year old monocle to his eye and scrunches his face up to hold it in place, pleased as punch with the disgusted sound Ryan makes.

 

“Bloody ‘ell, govna’, whats all this then?” Shane stands to his full height and puts both hands on his hips. “Ghost hunting? What a load o’ rubbish, innit?”

 

“He wasn’t British, dickhead.” Ryan sighs heavily. “You’re just-”

  

“Bollocks! Absolute hobnock. Total buffoonary .” With each word, he notices Ryan trying to hold back a smile. “I’m Dr. Harper, and all I wanted was a good wank or two! So what if I had to cut their willies off to do it? I’m British!”

 

Ryan snorts, “wh-what does that have to do with.. if - wait, hold on, if you’re British, that means you’re a murderous creep?”

 

“Remember colonialism, my dear Ryan?”

 

Whatever Ryan said next was muffled while he rubs his hands over his face.

 

“Can we just- let’s just move on, or I’m gonna fucki- I’m gonna kill you. With my bare hands.”

 

Shane only responds with that trademarked shit-eating grin of his, and for the next few minutes, they do some more serious investigating with the cameras rolling. Shane hangs back after tossing the monocle back into the drawer while Ryan explains exactly what type of practices were done in this very room. Nothing good.

 

“Dr. Harper? How’s it going? My name’s Shane.” He calls out, “I hear you liked to scoop out people’s brains, huh? What are ya doin’ with ‘em all? Eating ‘em? Makin’ brain soup?”

 

Ryan mumbles a _‘jesus christ’_ under his breath.

 

“I should warn you, people can survive without brains.” Shane continues but pauses in the middle of the room. “Take my buddy Ryan, here, for example.”

 

 “Hey-!”

 

“Perfect example.” he continues, “Anyway, we’re gonna use this magic box in a couple minutes, and according to some ghost scientists it’ll let you talk to us, sound good?”

 

Ryan grumbles out a: “It’s not magic, it’s-” and launches into his spiel about how exactly it works.

 

They turn it on. And it’s boring. Uneventful. Like he predicted, it didn’t pick up any real words. There were no tormented souls still lingering in this office, and Dr. Harper himself obviously had better places to be. Of course, it still spat out a few half strung together words that Ryan claimed were evidence.

 

Next on the agenda, was something Shane found particularly interesting. It’s a long, dark labyrinth of tunnels used exclusively to escort the dying or dead from the main floor to the crypt far below the surface. Naturally, it’s supposed to be a hot spot for ghostly activity, and Shane doesn't doubt that for a second.

 

That’s where they end up half an hour later.

 

Next to him, Ryan looks a sickly ashy colour, eyes wide with an expression that keeps flipping rapidly though all five stages of grief. There’s a slight tremble to his whole body as he gestures and explains to the camera what exactly they’re getting into, but the shakiness in his voice is very noticeable.

 

It’s nothing unusual, but Shane amps up his stupid, outlandish jokes and taunts which quickly lighten the tense atmosphere. He goes on a tangent about how he could fistfight one of the skeletons (and win), should it come back to life. In minutes, Ryan has visibly calmed down and starts to engage in the banter.

 

Shane, like always, volunteers to go first for their solo sessions through the tunnels. Camera in one hand, spirit box in the other with a go-pro trapped to his chest and trained on his face, Shane was ready to take on the world. Still, he turns around to face Ryan with the best fearful expression he can muster up

 

“I dunno, Ry. Suddenly I’m really scared.” He waves both hands rapidly to demonstrate his point. “All these ghosts are giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

 

“Shut up, idiot.” Ryan shakes his head, “Just get in there. We’ll see whose laughing when you get fucking possessed.”

 

“Well, Ryan, if a demon wants to get inside me it’ll have to buy me dinner first.” Shane replies, “I have standards. I’m real classy.”

 

“Uh-huh. Just go.”

 

With an eye roll, Shane holds his hands up in mock surrender and steps through the doorway.

 

The air is cold, and the drop in temperature is the first thing he notices. In his experience, it’s often associated with the abundance of lingering, nearby ghosts so it’s a shame he can’t use his vision. He walks past them, through them, and even though he can’t see them, he can _feel_ their presences as clearly as Ryan’s.

 

The corridor is narrow enough that he could stretch his arms out and touch each wall, and his head just barely misses the ceiling. He knows _‘death hall’_ wasn’t exactly used for jumping jacks and social gatherings, but he figures a corridor made for moving dead bodies around would be a little more generous with space.

 

The silence is so thick he can hear his own heartbeat, and his shallow breathing, but he walks far enough that he can’t hear Ryan anymore. He stands there for a moment, then peers down at the go-pro, angled in such an unflattering way that it’ll most likely show seventy percent nostril which the fans love so, so much.

 

“Well, here I am.” He says to it with a sigh. “In the darkness, trapped with all these ghouls-” he gestures around the dark corridor with a full body turn. “-and nowhere to run. Looks like I’m in trouble.”

 

He feels a coldness brush against his back which sends a shiver down his spine.

 

“Anyways, my name is Shane. I’m supposed to use this box to talk to you and learn your secrets.” He continues and holds up the spirit box. “Not that you’d have anything interesting to say. Well. Here we go.”

 

Shane cringes as the box bursts to life with ear-piercing static; its ungodly noise echoing through the corridors and probably even reaching Ryan.

 

“Uhh.. is anyone here?” He asks, “Any ghouls? Any tormented souls wanna play twenty questions? Truth or dare? Never have I ever?”

 

Static.

 

“Alright.” A sigh. “I’ll go first. I dare you to touch me. Throw me against a wall. Rip my hair ou- actually, hold it, scratch that last one. I just got a haircut.”

 

Static.

 

Shane taps a thumb on the spirit box. “How ‘bout that good ol’ Dr. Harper, huh? He seemed nice. Real friendly dude.”

 

****W**** ** **r̵̛͟ǫ̢͟ņ̸͏g̵**** cackles out suddenly, then more distorted: ****w̶̢̡̨̛r͏̴͘͞o͜n̵̨͡g҉̕͘͜͢****

 

“Oh, yeah?” Shane muses, lazily scanning the room. “Interesting. Tell me more.”

 

More static. More jumbled garbage the boogaras will trip over trying to decipher, and then:

****

****H͒͋ͦ͌ ė̴̑̏ͯ 'ͫ̐ṡ͋̓͛ ͣ̌͐̆͏h͡ e͐̈̎́̅ͦ͗ r̡̔ͨ e̵ͣ͂ͤ͊̌** **

 

Two words, clear as day. Even a deaf person could have heard the distinct, obvious words but he had a brand to maintain.

 

“Well, if you’re not gonna say anything, I-”

 

****H͒͋ͦ͌ ė̴̑̏ͯ 'ͫ̐ṡ͋̓͛ ͣ̌͐̆͏h͡ e͐̈̎́̅ͦ͗ r̡̔ͨ e̵ͣ͂ͤ͊̌** **

 

‘-guess I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

 

****bͩ̓̓̾̾̚ẻ̶h̃̀ͤͭ̄ͥ̚î͛n͂̀̂̒d͐͏ ̒ͮͯ͋y̑ͫͩ͌ͫ҉ő̡͗u̓͠** **

 

It takes every ounce of willpower he possess to not turn around and even more to keep the neutral expression on his face. Instead, he sighs audibly even though he can _feel_ something behind him now, something that wasn’t there before. It has far more energy than these helpless spirits, and it wants his attention.

 

He turns off the box, mumbling about how annoying it is while the presence behind him follows him down the corridor. He continues his session with three more minutes to go, but can’t exactly acknowledge the thing lingering nearby with the cameras still rolling. All he can do now is wait it out and see what happens.

 

Around him, he can’t sense all those ghosts he knew where there just a minute ago. He can’t hear their voices. The corridor had been chalk full of them, but something about this new arrival had scared them off. Something about it was more intimidating to them than Shane, and it was just the two of them now, shrouded in darkness.

 

Shane slows to a stop. He doesn't dare use his true vision, but he stares into the darkness ahead and addresses the thing behind him.

 

“I’m not scared of you, y’know..” He drawls, and he’s careful with his words. Nothing too direct. Something just vague enough for the viewers to dismiss as typical Shane behavior. “..but you should be scared of _me.”_

Another shiver. He can feel its hesitation now.

 

A pause. Seconds pass, before he adds:

 

“I’ve also got a buddy with a water gun full of holy-water..”

 

He waits. An icy sensation presses into his back, but it only lasts a few seconds before vanishing, and the presence along with it.

 

“That’s what I thought.” He murmurs while turning around to back the way he came. “I’m ghost proof, baby.”

 

When he swings the door open and emerges from the tunnel, Ryan doesn't look any less nervous than he did before Shane went in. He’s pacing, but they share a look, and whatever he sees in Shane’s expression seems to ease some of the tenseness away because his shoulders visibly relax. Ryan sighs.

 

“That wasn’t so bad.” Shane tells him. “I scared all the ghouls away for ya, don’t worry.”

 

“When I get murdered in there, my ghost will be telling you I told you so. I’m gonna fuckin’ die in there, dude, I hope you know that.”

 

“Uh-huh. Am I in your will? Do I get your gym membership and Lakers jerseys? Oh, please, Ryan. There’s nothing I’d want more.”

 

Ryan adjusts the go-pro strapped to his chest and pushes past Shane, “Over my dead body.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

“The only thing you’re getting when I die is a headache, because I’m coming back to haunt you.”

 

Shane smiles, “I’m not helping you move on then, bud. You’re stuck with me for eternity.”

 

With another heavy sigh, Ryan gathers all his remaining courage (which, Shane figured, was at a hearty twenty six percent) then stepped into the tunnel. He tries to protest when Shane closes the door behind him, but Shane promises its the only way to be fully immersed in the experience. It’s met with a string of curses.

 

Shane crosses his arms, closes his eyes and tries not to smile as he hears Ryan already begin to panic. Unless a spirit drops in for a surprise visit from another part of the Asylum, he’s got absolutely nothing to worry about. He moves over next to the door and slides down to the cool, concrete floor. And waits.

 

Whatever was in those tunnels with him wasn’t a concern anymore; he had scared it off, and if it knew what was good for it, wouldn’t try anything with Ryan. Still, he listened. _Really,_ listened. Not just to Ryan’s loud whining, but the voices. The spirits, all around the asylum. All distant, all distorted, all-

 

‘he’s here.’

 

Shane’s eyes shoot open to stare at someone across the room; a short, lanky man in say, his forties wearing only a long, white hospital gown. His eyes are wide, but there’s a distracted, faraway look in them. Part of the reason may be the nasty looking gash across his throat, blood flowing down the front of his gown.

 

‘he’s here..’ the spirit wheezes. ‘he’s here.’

 

Shane eyes him warily. That’s what the voice on the other end of the spirit box had been telling him.

 

‘don’t trust the doctor, don’t trust the doctor,’ he repeats, blood spilling from his mouth. ‘he knows you’re here, he knows you’re here, he knows you’re here.’

 

Shane briefly glances to the door Ryan vanished through, then back over at the ghost.

 

“Who?”

 

‘bad man, bad man.’ is the response, ‘he knows you’re here. Don’t trust the doctor.’

 

“The doctor.” Shane says, “Are you talking about Dr. Harper?”

 

The man reels back as if had been struck, ‘he knows you’re here. He knows-’

 

And just as quickly as he appeared, the spirit abruptly stops and forcefully shudders out of existence. Almost as if it had been silenced. Almost as if it said too much.

 

This has happened before. He’s had several ghosts use their limited energy to appear to him for those dire, few seconds. It was always to warn him there was someone else.. - some _thing_  - like him, nearby. And if they tried to warn _him,_ it meant they feared him far less than whatever else was hiding in the shadows.

 

Not long after that, Ryan finishes his solo-session and they quickly move on.

 

They enter the main infirmary, where all Dr. Harper's ‘experiments’ had taken place. Seventy-two people had been murdered here. This was where both of them were supposed to spend the night, but Ryan had backed out. The very thought had been too intense for him to deal with, and Shane didn’t push it.

 

Shane turns away form the cameras to use his sight; its no surprise that the wide, spacious room still has several spirits lingering around. Most are curled up on the gurneys, barely moving, or withering around and crying on the floor. There’s a few wandering aimlessly, and none seem to notice their arrival. Or care.

 

He blinks it away as he glances back over at Ryan whose explaining the significance of the room to the audience.

 

They part ways, and Shane offers a helpful ‘good luck’ as Ryan heads out of the infirmary and towards a staff room across the hall. Shane’s sleeping bag is already set up on the cold, dusty floor but he still sighs. It’s going to be an uncomfortable sleep - he’s more concerned about his back being sore in the morning than any ghost.

 

Shane wanders over to a nearby chair instead, and pulls out his phone to pass the time. He talks to himself. He hums half-remembered tunes. He watches youtube videos with the volume all the way up. Admittedly, there isn’t much he can do in the way of making his solo sleep session funny since he, well, actually sleeps.

 

So he texts Ryan.

 

**Shane [10:33PM]:** how’s it going, bud? See any ghouls yet?

 

**Ryan [10:33PM]** It’s so fuckin dark in here

 

**Ryan [10:33PM]** : I keep seeing things but I know its the dark playing tricks on me

 

**Shane [10:34PM]** : Nope, you’re seeing ghosts. You’re in ghost city babyyyy

 

**Ryan [10:34PM]** : Shut up shane I hate you

 

A chill goes down Shane’s spine, and the sudden drop in temperature is enough to draw his attention away from the typing bubbles of whatever Ryan was going to say. He blinks and scans the room, yet doesn't see anything. The room is empty and unusually quiet. No voices, not even distant whispers.

 

He realizes right away that’s the problem.

 

Shane turns around and towards the back of the infirmary, he sees it. Clear as day. The figure is unlike anything he’s seen in a while, and it makes his stomach churn. It’s a distorted, humanoid form that looks more monster than human. It’s hunched over, mutilated and broken beyond repair as it shudders violently.

 

It’s wearing a black suit -- or what’s left of one. The jacket is torn to shreds; the once white dress shirt is soaked in blood and unbuttoned to reveal his puncture wound and bruise covered chest. His stomach is cut wide open with intestines dangling down to his feet.

 

One arm seems inhumanly long as it dangles by the creatures side, but its missing three fingers. Its other arm is completely gone, along with that jacket sleeve. It’s tilted to the side, limping slowly as it drags a mangled leg along. It’s right foot was gone, and that same leg had a bone sticking out at an awkward angle.

 

It looked up at him. Pale skin with chunks of flesh missing, horribly mutilated with even more cuts and bruises. Bloody pits where it’s eyes had been gouged out, a nose so crooked it almost looked sideways and half a left ear. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but Shane could still identify who this.. thing, used to be.

 

And what it is now.

 

“Poltergeist.” He mutters.

 

It cocks its head to a ninety degree angle, head nearly toppling off its shoulders from the large gash across its throat.

 

“They really did a number on you, huh?” He muses, but still feels unnerved by the sight in front of him. “But, you did deserve it.”

 

It opens its mouth to speak, and through the blood that pours out, he can see more than half its teeth are missing.

 

_You’re like me._  It says. It’s a dry, raspy hiss akin to the feeling of sandpaper.

 

“We’re nothing alike.”

 

_You’re like me._  It insists, growling this time. _I ssssense it. I feeeeeel it. Like me. Like meeee._

 

Shane purses his lips. He’d been in the presence of poltergeists before, and all of them had been beyond reason. They’d been stripped of their humanity and unable to process anything. They were the closest thing to a demon he’d ever encountered, but always had to remind himself he wasn’t like them. He was in control.

 

“Your patients did this too you, huh?” He asks instead, eyeing it up and down. “They musta’ had one helluva grudge.”

 

_My experiments, it says. Yes.. yessss.. you will be a new addition._

 

“Uh-huh. My noggin is pretty big, and I know you have a thing for brains.”

 

_Yessss. You. You and the ottttther one._  It’s mouth twists into something mirroring a smile. _T_ _he other one. A good brain. Pretty brain.. I would liiiike it.. for my collectiiion.._

“Too bad, buddy.” Shane says, “I like his brain exactly where it is, thank you very much.”

 

It’s staring at the door now, _the other one smells like fear. The other one will be first._

__

Shane stares intently. “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me.”

 

It hisses and rattles out a: _I am notttt.. afraid of you.._

 

Wordlessly, Shane takes a step towards it so its body violently jerks back and begins to distort even worse than before. Its fear causes the immediate area around it to be struck with a sudden whirlwind, causing debris to fly around its vicinity. The floorboards tremor ever so slightly, but Shane hardly takes notice.

 

“Leave.” He commands. He never takes his intense stare off it. “Don’t make me say it again.”

 

He doesn't have to. Dr. Harper, or whats left of him, lets out a guttural hiss and slams back into the wall where it disappears in that frenzied whirlwind. Papers slowly drift down to the floor, and Shane allows himself to relax. He takes a deep breath and then remembers there’s something else he has to do.

 

Shane walks over to the camera, stops recording and promptly deletes the current sessions’ footage.

 

It’ll be a loss, sure, but they already have enough footage. He’s more worried about Dr. Harpers potential to harm the living, & could only think about Ryan. This wasn’t the first time a creature like this had taken an interest in him, nor was it first time a creature like this had expressed interest in harming him.

 

Humans. They’re like beacons for unwanted supernatural attention.

 

Shane doesn't dwell on that thought too long; he turns the camera off with intent to blame it on a dying battery and lets out a sigh. Behind him, the infirmary doors slam open the door and Ryan barrels into the room like he’s being chased by wolves.

 

“I’ve changed my mind.” Ryan loudly announces, “Fuck this place. Fuck it. I don’t- I can’t do this. We’re- I’m calling it quits.”

 

There’s a few seconds of brain lag, and between those two points, Shane looks over his shoulder with his eyes as black as obsidian. There’s a dazed woman standing next to Ryan, staring at him curiously. _Oh._ His brain suddenly rubber bands back into place. He blinks, and the woman disappears, but Ryan..

 

“Already, huh? Too breezy in here for ya?”

 

There’s an unreadable expression on Ryan’s face that doesn't change despite the lighthearted jab. Shane humorously raises his eyebrows and stares like it’ll do anything to calm his nerves, but thankfully, Ryan slowly shakes his head and mumbles a _‘god, I’m losing it’._

 

“We wouldn’t get any footage of my sleep-in, anyway.” Shane explains to fill the silence, then gestures to the camera. “The battery died.”

  

“Oh.” Ryan says, but its clear from his tone it doesn't bother him much. “I- y’know, maybe that's for the best Let’s just, uh- can we just get the hell out of here? Please?”

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

He collects the camera and sends a text to the crew to bring the car around, but when he looks back up, Ryan is still standing there. His lips are pursed as he stares at the camera in Shane’s hands, but he doesn't move as Shane approaches like he’s in a daze.

 

“Hey, man, you okay?”

 

It takes a second, but Ryan peers up at him. “Yeah. Uh- yeah, I’m good. It’s just.. yeah.”

 

“We’ll be outta here in no time,” Shane promises and directs the two of them towards the exit, “Then we can stop at that Chinese place we saw on the way in, sound good?”

 

Ryan still seems off, but he nods. “Oh, yeah. I guess I should have known better than to, uh- than to ghost-hunt on an empty stomach.”

 

Shane recalls getting Wendys before arriving, but doesn't point that out. Instead, he lets out a laugh and gestures for Ryan to go first through the doors. Shane follows, though there's a moment of hesitation where he looks over his shoulder.

 

He knows the countless spirits are probably begging him not to go, not to leave them alone with the poltergeist. He pursed his lips. Dr. Harper wasn't his problem anymore.

 

Shane shook his head and went after Ryan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, and average as ever.

* * *

 

07/14/20xx - 10:31 AM

_(July 14th, 20xx)_

* * *

 

 

A metal ringed, black binder is dropped in front of him Monday morning, causing a loud  _thump._

Now, five minutes ago Shane had poured his first coffee.  _Fifteen_  minutes ago, he tripped over Obi and face planted the wall. Twenty minutes before that, he had crawled out of bed hungover and starving. Twenty- _one_  minutes before all  _that,_  he smashed his alarm clock out of working condition for waking him up.

 

Needless to say, it isn't his morning so far.

 

Ryan hadn’t seemed to notice.

 

His eyes are drawn to the thing now sitting on his keyboard. He’s used to the folders—the ridiculous folders they use for True Crime episodes, filled with nonsense theories. The folders held some resemblance of professionalism—for the  _aesthetic,_ Ryan had claimed before every episode—and he supposed it was a valid enough reason.

 

But this.. it was a legitimate binder, hardcover and all. Plain and minimalist, no cheesy third-grade science-esq cover, or title like he almost expected there to be, but it was still a  _binder._ It was  _heavy._  It was like the were working a case for the LAPD, not running around hunting ghosts no one knew about.

 

“I stayed up last night printing all this off,” Ryan tells him, clearly pleased with himself.

 

“You did—you did all of  _this,”_ he opens the cover, revealing a stack of papers about half an inch thick. “in one night?  Are you okay?”

 

Ryan rolls his chair closer, “Printing stuff off, yeah. The research took weeks, but think I’ve narrowed our next ep down to a few places. The rest are for later use.”

 

 “Uh-huh…” Shane murmurs, briefly skimming the pages. “Texas? Washington?”

 

“I mean, there’s a few places within a few hours of here that have serious potential,” Ryan eagerly flips to an unmarked page—god, he must have had it memorized. “This, and  _this_.”

 

“All the way in Brooklyn,” he notes, “And Rhode Island. You’re hoping that budget meeting goes well, I take it?”

 

“We’ve got nothing to worry about, big guy. I’ve got a good feeling.”

 

He’s usually nervous before those kind of meetings—he must know something good.

 

Shane rubs his temples, “Alright, well, let me get some caffeine in my system before we start talking ghosts, alright?”

 

“You’ve already had a coffee.”

 

“I need six coffees per ghoul.” Shane says, which earns a playful eye roll

 

“Okay, so take a look.” He insists, then rolls his chair away. “I’ll be back in a bit and we can discuss everything.”

 

“Sure. Break a leg, Bergara. Lay on the charm real thick. Don't say anything I wouldn't say." He cups his hands around his mouth, "Ask for a spin-off channel for the hotdaga!”

 

He watches Ryan give a middle finger with a big, cheesy grin, but turns away  to weave his way through the room and around co-workers until he’s vanished out of sight completely.

 

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Shane has the file open and scans rapidly though all the pages to see if there’s some place he recognizes to be actually haunted or not. Most of them are allegedly haunted townhouses—keyword  _‘allegedly’_ , because the reports are literally just strange noises or very explainable, unexplained shadows.

 

He skims past most of it and jumps right into the heavy-paragraph sections, with enough information to fill a novel. Those were the pages Ryan had suggested; both of them were abandoned prisons. Prison riots that ended in death, and high rates of gang on gang violence (with, you guessed it, tons of death).

 

They seemed interesting enough, but Shane would have to bring up the concern of potential repetitiveness, since they just had two prison episodes last season. They’d be safe—large buildings like prisons rarely had any demonic or poltergeist activity since there was so much room to roam. Preston-Hill had been an exception.

 

Moving on, he noted several places within their state and he hadn’t heard of any of them. The Skyline Yoga Hotel  _(seriously?)_ , The Grande Arkway Asylum (that one, he noticed, was underlined in red.), The 1965 Winery and Beef Museum (no  _seriously_ , what the  _fuck?)_ , and some tourist trap called the Quill-Simmons Estate.

 

Shane doubts the hotel or museum were actually haunted, and a quick skim through the research proves he’s right. All the ‘evidence’ composed mainly of ‘weird noises’, which started as early as 2008. Nothing before that, which should have seemed weird to the average Joe, considering the museum was built in 1967.

 

Serious potential, sure. Serious potential to be a boring episode, but sometimes those were for the best. Shane could relax knowing they weren’t going to be bothered by restless, or malevolent spirits. Protecting Ryan from the curious supernatural was a full-time job, but he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it.

 

He could write up a list of places in neighboring states (non-haunted ‘haunted’ locations) and present the idea to Ryan but wondered if that would seem suspicious, given he had a full binder of ideas already. He’d never been the one to scope out locations for the show and didn’t have a valid reason why he’d suddenly taken the initiative.

 

God, he’s not caffeinated enough for this.

 

Shane reaches for his mug and takes a sip but is pulled out of his thoughts when he realizes there’s no more coffee. Awesome. All hail the watcher, or whatever. Ryan probably won’t be back for another twenty minutes, assuming the meeting goes well, so he’s stuck here with the ghost research for a ghost test he didn’t study for.

 

With a defeated sigh, Shane pushes himself up from his desk and makes a beeline towards the kitchen; maybe another coffee will push the pulsing headache down a little while longer. Maybe it will give him the willpower to push through all the research Ryan’s presented, even though Ryan’s  _definitely_  picked a place already.

 

He bets it’s the prison in Texas, not Washington. Seems more exciting. Or,  _active—_ as they say in the ghost hunting biz. He knows the reports of watchtower lights randomly turning on—and moving slightly, as if wind couldn’t account for that second one—had been the thing to initially encapture Ryan’s full attention.

 

They’d probably end up looking further into the Asylum, maybe as a season finale. Asylums were always their most viewed episodes, despite how scared Ryan is of them. Though, the thought of going to a place called The Winery and Beef museum was hysterical. Could Ryan narrate that with a straight face?

 

 He sighs, deciding to save those thoughts for his post-coffee brain.

 

He greets a couple co-workers on the way there, but most are preoccupied at their desks or with each other, sipping away at their McDonald’s’ coffee. Huh. Maybe he should have been a little later and pulled the  _‘LA traffic, am I right?’_ excuse while he was sitting in the drive-thru scrolling through twitter.

 

The staff kitchen is empty when he rounds the corner, say for an intern quickly rushing out, which is a relief. Usually he’s the one to strike up conversation, even if he barely knows the person, but he’s not feeling it right now. The kitchen is a mess with newly bought grocery bags strewn about and yet to be put away.

 

He heads straight for the recently used Keurig, humming as he sets the old coffee cup aside to grab a new one. With the soft background noise mixed with the low rumble of the machine as it brews his coffee, he almost feels relaxed. He wants to be grateful for the solitude, but of course he couldn’t even have that.

 

Shane sighs, “Hello, Clarence.”

 

There’s a disgruntled huff next to him, “Doesn’t the workday start at eight? You’re late, again.”

 

“Good morning to you, too.” He says, then sniffs the inside of a seemingly clean mug; yup, definitely alcohol. “And I’m on salary, so..”

 

“So that gives you an excuse to come in late whenever you want? Kids these days!” Clarence squawks, and shakes his head so hard Shane’s worried his dentures might just fly out of his mouth. “So lazy. So, entitled. Not like back in my day. None of you know how to respect your elders.”

 

He’s not sure what that last bit had to do with anything.

 

Shane decides to use his old, alcohol-free mug. Better to be safe than sorry. While it dispenses coffee, he peers down at Clarence, “I’m older than you, remember?”

 

He’s a frail, old man nearly two feet shorter than Shane, but his glare cuts like a knife.

 

“And a smart-ass.” He says. “I don’t care if you were there when they strung Jesus up, you look as young as my grandson.”

 

Shane snorts, “Whatever you say, Casper the friendly ghost. Don’t you have somewhere else to haunt? The nursing home, maybe?”

 

There hasn’t been a single day in the past couple years of knowing each other where the ghost next to him laughed at one of his jokes, or even cracked a faint smile. Considering he spends all his time in the Buzzfeed kitchen, Shane knows the old man has heard more than enough to change his stale, dry sense of humor.

 

“Have you spoken to your boss yet?” Clarence changes the subject and Shane rolls his eyes. It’s another conversation they’ve had already. “Tell him I’d willingly go to hell than spend another day with you millennials talking about m—meh? Eh, what was the word?”

 

“Memes.” Shane says, then takes a sip of his coffee. He makes a face and realizes there’s not nearly enough sugar. “And I  _told_  you. Lucifer isn’t my boss. I’ve never even met the guy, and I’m not aiming to.” He likes to believe Satan isn’t real either—he doubts the guy would like him very much. “Seems like a real piece of work. A real tool.”

 

Clarence moves out of eyesight with a grunt, but his cane scrapes across the ground as he heads over to the leftover cheesecake. On the way, he mumbles an audible  _‘then you’ve got something in common.’._  Shane smirks as he scans the counter top for sugar, then opens the overhead cupboards without a response.

 

“You can’t speed up the application process?” The old man demands from somewhere behind him. He’s likely poking at the so  _very_ tempting cheesecake. “I’d like to leave.”

 

Shane fishes around in the cupboard with another sigh. He  _knows_  someone just bought more. “We’ve been over this, clare-bear. Can’t help ya move on if they don’t know what’s keeping ya here.”

 

“We’d know what was keeping me here if you lent some of your precious time to help.” He grumbles, and Shane retrieves a near empty, open bag from the back of the cupboard. “Come on, Samwell.”

 

Shane narrows his eyes and sniffs the compromised sugar bag. “It’s  _Shane_ —” Oh, god. He scrunches up his nose and immediately searches for the expiration date. “Can sugar go bad? Can someone die from expired sugar?”

 

“I hope so.” Clarence mutters.

 

With the reward (finally a cup of goddamn coffee) outweighing the potential cons (choking to death on expired sugar clumps, turning into a demon-ghost that would become Clarence’s roommate in the Buzzfeed kitchen) he decided it was worth the risk. He scoops out a couple spoonful’s then heads over to the fridge.

 

And runs into another problem.

 

 “Milk.” Shane grumbles, then a little louder: “Where’d they put the milk?”

 

 “Grocery bag on the counter.” Then: “Can’t you use that show of yours to help me?”

 

“Thanks.” He says, kicking the fridge door shut “And it’s called  _Un_ solved for a reason, Clarence. Yours is open and shut: your grand-kids didn’t cremate you like you requested. You didn’t wanna die, so your stubbornness turned you into a ghost that wanders earth for all eternity.”

 

The old man scoffs, “I’ve told you a million times—”

 

“Yeah, yeah. So, find whatever is keeping you tied to this building. Ta-da! You’re all set.”

 

“I’m a ghost!”

 

Shane raises his eyebrows as he heads back over to his coffee. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“My hands don’t work!”

 

“Probably the arthritis.”

 

“I’ve thought about possessing you,” Clarence says, matter-o-fact. His voice is calm, like it’s supposed to be a threat. Shane almost snorts. “I could use you to have an actual body.”

 

Shane just nods distractedly. That first sip of coffee always hits the spot—he shivers with delight. “Mm. I’m flattered you wanna get inside me, Clare-bear, but you’re not exactly my type. You’re too young for me.”

 

The old man narrows his eyes, unamused by the joke.

 

“So, possess me.” Shane says, “Your fear of heights might get in the way of that plan, though, and I don’t want you to break my legs when you trip over everything.”

 

“I said I’d  _thought_  about it.”

 

“Yeah, and if you were serious, you’d try and possess every single co-worker that walked in here.” Shane takes a sip of his coffee and watches the man frown. “And I hate to tell you this, but that’s not how being a ghost works. Possession is more of a demon thing.”

 

Clarence clenches his jaw so hard Shane almost thinks he might shatter those dentures. He gets annoyed easily. And often. It’s a common occurrence. There’s a short period of silence between them, only filled with faint chatter, before Shane sets his coffee down and runs an exasperated hand down his face.

 

“What do you want me to say? You want me to out myself as a demon to Ryan for your sake?”

 

“You’ll have to tell him sooner or later.” Clarence snaps, “Or he’ll find out. You’re not as smart as you think you are, but he is.”

 

Every once and a while, Clarence will say something that hits a little too close to home—accidently, but mostly on purpose; and every time Shane brushes it off. He stares at the counter, lips pursed while the hot mug burns into his hand. They’ve had this discussion before, and he’s not in the mood to have it again.

 

_Don’t dwell on it, Madej._

 

 “I’m starving.” Shane declares. Bagels sound real good right about now. “I’m gonna have a bagel. You want anything?”

 

“Oatmeal.” Is the response, like he didn’t already expect the answer. The old man has wanted oatmeal for hundred and twenty-two days in a row now. “I want oatmeal.”

 

“Sure, champ. I’ll get you that oatmeal.”

 

Clarence doesn’t try to reiterate his point again—he’s been on Shane’s shit list before, so he knows when to tread lightly or to back off entirely. Ghosts seem to notice the prominent shift in demonic energy, or whatever he emits. He just hangs back wordlessly as Shane pulls a bagel in half with a little more force than necessary.

 

It’s strange that no one had walked in yet, Shane thinks. Usually there’s bleary eyed stragglers, mumbling about how they hated mornings and gravitated towards the Keurig like moths to a porch light. Despite it nearing noon, he usually wasn’t the only one with the idea of a late breakfast or more coffee.

 

Once it pops, Shane stacks his bagel plus a piece of cheesecake onto a still-damp plate straight from the dishwasher, grabs his coffee and sits down at the table. He leans back and stretches both legs before propping them up on the table, back to the kitchen entrance. The furious expression on Clarence’s face is one he’s seen a million times over.

 

Manners this, proper etiquette that. He’d  _lived_  though the fifties, and barely behaved then, but Clarence always seemed determined to send him into a ptsd-style flashback about one of the most boring decades of his life.  _Life was so much simpler back then! And better! And ideal!_ He’d constantly chirp.

 

_Yeah, except for the racism. And sexism. And homophobia. Y’know. Small stuff like that. But thank god children had good posture, right?_

 

Clarence watches him eat with that same sour expression, then pipes up: “You eat suffering for breakfast, don’t you?”

 

“Actually, they’re called bagels.”

 

 “You’re not helping me. Do demons get off on pain and misery?”

 

“Maybe, but I think that’s called BDSM. Humans are into it too.”

 

“Is that why you’re torturing me?”

 

“Hey, I like having you around.” Shane points out, purposely speaking with a mouthful so the old man looks away with disgust. “Most of the ghosts I deal with are real party poopers. But not you—you’re a barrel o’ laughs.”

 

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

 

He’s heard that one before.

 

Clarence’s eyes are suddenly drawn to something behind Shane. He sighs. “I’m not done with you. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

 

 “Shane?”

 

He blinks, and Clarence disappears.

 

“I’ve been looking for you.” Ryan’s voice comes suddenly as he enters the kitchen, “Were you talking to someone?”

 

“Nope.” Shane says through another mouthful of bagel, “But on an unrelated note, I think Buzzfeed is haunted.”

 

 “Uh-huh. Why’s that.”

 

“Within the last ten minutes, I’ve gotten a wicked headache.” He explains, ignoring the tingling sensation in his thigh where Clarence must have swatted him with the cane. “I think its ghosts.”

 

Ryan rolls his eyes and walks into his field of vision, “So, ghosts aren’t real except when they’re the source of your headaches?”

 

“Bingo, baby.”

 

“Unbelievable.”

 

Shane smiles. “So, what’s up?”

 

“We’ve got a budget.”

 

He can tell from Ryan’s suppressed smile that the cheque has an additional zero this time.

 

“That good, huh?”

 

Without hesitation, he immediately launches into a rundown of the meeting (a discussion Shane figures isn’t suited for a very public kitchen, but maybe back at their desks) but it’s clear Ryan’s too excited to be stopped, regardless of his surroundings.

 

Somewhere between record high view counts and increase in popularity, he realizes he no longer senses Clarence’s presence—the old man must have given up his attempts to attract Ryan’s attention. Whatever he had been doing. Not that it ever works, anyway. Usually he stuck around because he seemed to like Ryan.

 

“We can go anywhere.” Ryan concludes, “Did you look at the folder yet? We’ve got room for something big.”

 

“Folder? That was a damn binder, Ryan.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

He sighs. “I did, yeah.”

 

“And?”

 

“Nothing in that binder really screamed  _Big Production_ to me..” Shane taps his fingers against the desk, “It’s a season premiere, remember? Forget the binder for now. You think they’d let us go to Canada?”

 

At that, Ryan’s eyes light up. “Why?”

 

 _Because they’d let us go anywhere at this point, and it’s been a while since I’ve had a good vacation,_ He thinks

 

“Turns out they’ve got a whole bunch of spooky places up there.” He says instead, “You wouldn’t believe how many times the Yeti’s been spotted in the great white north. Or, so I’ve been told.”

 

It’s not exactly a lie. When he’s not listening to Ryan’s pitches for unsolved, he’s being bombarded with suggestions for the show on every platform.  _We’ve got spooky places over here in—_ was usually code for  _please come to this city you’ve never heard of on the off chance I might get to meet you guys._

 

He could tell Ryan is wholeheartedly interested anyway, “Yeah? What’s the most haunted one on that list of yours?”

 

Shane smiles.

 

“How goods your French?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarence is loosely based off my friend Nora. Sorry Nora.


End file.
